


The world of Impossible things

by SometimesyougettheBear



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:16:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3212225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SometimesyougettheBear/pseuds/SometimesyougettheBear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Nogitsune has gone, leaving Chaos in it's wake. Stiles is hurting.<br/>And he just wants to go back in time. He wants to be happy again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles remembered an ad he had once seen. “Depression hurts” the voiceover had said.

It makes him laugh.

Depression doesn’t hurt. It’s soul sucking agony.

A pit that swallows you alive and you can never never see the sun.

Depression is the eternal. Every single day is Groundhog’s Day, he’s seen it all before. He wakes up and drags himself out of bed, limbs resisting, exhaustion all encompassing. At first he chuckles to himself, “it’s just a bad day, it’ll get better”. Puts on the trademark grin, trades a few barbs.

He tries to rationalize. Ignore the little voice in his head that starts off soft and silent and then gets louder and louder, screaming. Taking every inch of space in his brain. Like an annoying ad, it pops up at the worst moments. Saying things that makes no sense.

It reminds him of the worst things. In the best mimicry it speaks in his ear with the voice of every tormentor, every cruel thing ever said to him.

It tells him, _“You are nothing. And have always been nothing, an empty hole for the nogitsune to fill. The world would be better if you aren’t around. No one will miss you,”_

He spends a lot of time arguing with the voice in his head. In the middle of conversations, while he is working on that tricky math problem, it is unrelenting, a steady whisper.

It tells him.  
 _“It should have been you on the floor. You, lying there gasping, chest blossoming blood red, dark hair spread across the parking lot ground. It should have been you”_

He ends up with a lot of halted conversations. People stare at him. But he’s got this. He’s the irrepressible Stiles. That smile is practically glued onto his face. He can deal with it, go through the motions, kick the bad guys. This little depression thing, nah, He can take care of that.

When another envelope of unpaid bills lands on his kitchen counter and he hides it so his father can’t see. The voice reminds him what a terrible son he is, how maybe if he wasn’t there, his father could start off new, find someone who would love him, have a better son. One who wasn’t spastic or adhd or always caught up in a crime scene. It takes him a little longer to quiet the voice that time. 

He sleeps but never gets any rest. He sleeps all the time. In classes. as soon as he gets home from school. In his dreams, in the world that could never be, Allison is alive. She and Scott are back together like they were supposed to always be. Bonnie and Clyde. The dead bodies scattering the police office never happened. The Nogitsune never happened. In the sunlight, under the trees of the Beacon Hills preserve, Lydia kisses him. 

She tastes like strawberry.

In his dreams, his mom is alive. He smells her sweet perfume first. Her warm brown eyes, her Polish cooking wafts from the kitchen as she sings, her quavery soprano voice holding each note.  
He’s never been hurt and beaten in Gerard’s basement. The wrinkles have disappeared from his father’s eyes. The house isn’t in foreclosure. He still has everyone he loves.

_If only He could live forever in this universe of impossible things._

But when he wakes, the real world hits him hard like crashing onto a sidewalk slab. His father is taking extra shifts because money is tight. Scott still looks lost, he doesn’t talk to him anymore, doesn’t invite him over to the McCall house for nachos and bad monster movies.  


He remembers what it used to be like in his dreams, when Scott had laughed freely. the feeling of having a best friend, who you could hold on to, a seat saved for you in every class and lunch table, all the secret in jokes only they knew. A time when crushing guilt didn’t suffocate his chest, choking the air and life out of him.

Whatever. He doesn’t deserve friends.

Lydia sits, faded and dressed in torn jeans, in Eichen house, unable to speak, eyes staring blankly at the wall behind him when he visits.

He remembers Lydia in the height of her vivacity. Red hair flying, haughty sureness as if she was born to rule Beacon Hills high school and all the hearts of men. The certainty with which she answered each math problem, and pulled together each outfit, not a hair out of place. He aches for this Lydia, would give anything to see her smile again.

He is so tired.

_the universe of impossible things...._

Death stops seeming so bad. Maybe He’ll die and go to hell, but maybe death is heaven where he’ll see his mom again.  
Or maybe it’s a perfect sleep, deep, dreamless, without ever waking.

_"You can live in my world, "_ the voice says, _"You know how. You know it’s in the oak cupboard, second drawer from the top in your father’s bedroom. The black box has a false bottom. In there you’ll find it. Gleaming black and heavy, violence and beauty and peace—_

maybe the voice is right.


	2. After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens after

Stiles doesn't think a lot these days.

He lives in a quiet place, an expanse of white space where there are very few voices.

It's cold, sometimes, peaceful in the ground. Rhythms of life are unmoved, beautiful, unchanging.

In fall the leaves flutter golden, burnt brown, vermilion, yellow......

In winter, the trees are silent and cold, draped in a coat of blank snow, as blank as the last note he tried to write to his father,where he tried to explain  _why ._ But couldn't because all the words jumbled together in his mind, a forest of confusing letters, a maze that made no sense. 

How can anyone ever explain why they want to die? Why the world seems so awful they never want to see another summer, or fall or sunrise or sunset?

You can't. He couldn't. So Stiles just stuck to a short goodbye, scrawled onto a kitchen napkin, stuck to the refrigerator.

_I'm sorry. I just can't go on._

_I love you dad._

* * *

 

In spring the world is mudluscious or puddle wonderful. Asphalt roads gleam with new rain, daffodils spring quietly from the cracked dry ground, an old gourd is filled  with new water. A dead sea  is renewed with hummingbird songs.

The Sheriff  thinks about Stiles every year, measures Stiles's birthdays on an invisible calendar that never stops turning in his mind. 

 _Stiles would be eighteen today,_ the Sheriff thinks.

Losing a child is like losing your future. All those proms he never got to see his kid off to, the graduation he never saw, the birthdays he would have celebrated now filled with the ache of that one day that everything went wrong. The one day he failed his son.

The Sheriff just wants to be angry with Stiles, " _You can't? What about me? Didn't you know I couldn't go on without you?"_

But he's lost the two people he loved the most in his life and all that's left is an ache. A hole that grows wider, like a chasm in the earth that keeps spreading, a black hole that stretches on to infinity, as long as or longer than death.

The Sheriff just hurts. He is told that time will make it better, that he will be okay and he wants to yell at the nice well-wishers. Didn't they know time could never soothe the pain inside? That no matter how much the Sheriff prayed and bargained with God, his son was just.... gone. 

He felt that the world ought to have shuddered with his son's death, thunder should have fallen, trees ought to have been uprooted by a strange whirlwind, the sky should have darkened with clouds as if it was the end of days, but none of that happened.

Instead, there is a room of his house he can never open, every candy wrapper untouched like some sort of sacred museum.

Maybe if he kept it in perfect condition, Stiles would come back to him?

But no.

 Stiles was just gone

* * *

 

In summer, his dad brings him flowers.

White Lilacs.

Stiles is right next to the mother he adored.

_Here lies Stiles Przemyslaw Stilinski. Beloved son._

Sometimes his father will stand there and talk to him and Stiles loves to hear the cadence of his father's voice, smooth syllables, voice roughened  by grief.

But Stiles is far from feeling anything attached to the world. He looks at his father  from a great distance ,unable to even understand his father's pain anymore.

One could almost hope that love would cross great distances, conquer all.

But what do we know?

Love couldn't save Stiles from that fateful night, from the smell of that gun, from the promise of peace.

Love wasn't enough to save his father from finding his son, his sun, lying, unmovable in his bedroom, covered in blood from a bullet wound, the gun innocently resting on the floor beside him where Stiles had dropped it as he fell.

Love did nothing to assuage the Sheriff's screams that night that never ended or the nightmares after.

Above the sky swirls deep and blue over all of us, the earth rotates slowly, a pale blue dot of life in an unlit universe filled with chasms of blackness unbrightened by even the smallest of stars.

In Beacon Hills, the white sky blares with impending rain.

And wherever Stiles is ....

Birds are  still singing.  

fresh morning dew

on the grass

heralds a new day.

 

 

**The End**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God this is depressing. I'm sad just reading this.

**Author's Note:**

> Having trouble finishing the other story right now and this plot fic was stuck in my head. Hope you enjoy.


End file.
